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Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.

Anne Sexton

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Anne Sexton
Age: 45 †
Born: 1928
Born: November 9
Died: 1974
Died: October 4
Poet
Writer
Newton
Massachusetts
Anne Gray Harvey
White
Moments
Littles
Little
Love
Like
Dripping
Enters
Blood

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Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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There is hope. There is hope everywhere. Today God give milk and I have the pail.
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Daylight is nobody's friend. God comes in like a landlord and flashes on his brassy lamp.
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If you meet a cross-eyed person you must plunge into the grass, alongside the chilly ants, fish through the green fingernails and come up with the four-leaf clover.
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Don't bite till you know if it's bread or stone.
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Blind with love, my daughter has cried nightly for horses, those long-necked marchers and churners that she has mastered, any and all, reigning them in like a circus hand.
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I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
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Women tell time by the body. They are like clocks. They are always fastened to the earth, listening for its small animal noises.
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Even so, I must admire your skill. You are so gracefully insane.
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I have forgiven all the old actors for dying. A new one comes on with the same lines, like large white growths, in his mouth. The dancers come on from the wings, perfectly mated.
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For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.
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One of my secret instructions to myself as a poet is Whatever you do, don't be boring.
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Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
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It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.
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God is only mocked by believers.
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The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives
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You must be a poet, a lady of evil luck desiring to be what you are not, longing to be what you can only visit.
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I tell it stories now and then and feed it images like honey. I will not speculate today with poems that think they're money.
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All who love have lied.
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The man inside of woman ties a knot so that they will never again be separate.
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